


A Year in Omelas

by lovingdefiance



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Banter, Developing Friendships, Dialogue Heavy, Dystopia, First Kiss, First Meetings, High School, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, hand holding, pregame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovingdefiance/pseuds/lovingdefiance
Summary: “I’m sorry. It sounds weird to say that our society is safe like that’s a bad thing. Or that I don’t have much to worry about, like that’s something to be sad about, or that...so much of my time is just burned on entertainment, you know? I think my life, my experiences, they...they aren’t real. There’s nothing there. I’m just...” He sighed. “I’m not saying this right. I hate what I’m saying right now.”“It does sound pretty stupid, Saihara-chan.” A moment of silence passed. Saihara watched the ceiling fan rotate until the blades appeared to whir in reverse. “Only joking! I looove your personal philosophy about how our lives are so great they actually suck!”Vignettes about the growth of friendship and love in a compassionate, gentle utopia.





	A Year in Omelas

**Author's Note:**

> “The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist; a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.”
> 
> Ursula K. LeGuin, [”The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas”](https://pastebin.com/81gWcNkx)

Saihara stepped off his third train of the morning and walked toward the school building in the brisk spring air, checking his phone and scowling at the time. This high school, not his first choice, lined up so poorly with the train timetables that he had arrived an hour and a half before classes were scheduled to begin. He would be the first person to class, not just this day but every single day for the foreseeable future, an inconvenience that could last for years. His new shoes clicked on the linoleum of the halls all the way to his classroom. He saw not a single soul.

The wrong school and the wrong time were bad enough, he thought, without combining it with the wrong classroom at the start. _1-C_ , read the sign. He stared at it for a long moment before nodding decisively. This was right. With a deep sigh, he pushed open the door and walked in.

A blackboard eraser fell from the top of the door and landed atop Saihara’s hat with an audible _paff_ , scattering chalk dust through his hair and over the dark fabric of his uniform. 

Saihara froze, his thoughts derailed, and took a long look at the front of the classroom as the eraser slid gradually from his head and fell to the floor. The electronic screen at the front of the room stood dark and vacant, as he expected. The school had no blackboards. No schools used blackboards anymore.

“Sooo, I know what you’re thinking!” a voice chirped from the back of the classroom. He jumped. “Where did this thing even come from?” Saihara turned his head and leveled a bewildered stare at the back corner, where a petite boy sat with his chair tilted back on two legs, his shoes propped on the desk. “But little did you know, all schools keep a stockpile of these antique items, and I alone know their secret location!”

“W-what!?” Saihara stammered.

“Or is that a lie?” he asked, beaming. His dark hair framed his face in strange, curling swoops. “Maybe I’m just an eyewitness, but...I won’t tell you anything.”

Saihara took off his hat and shook it off, grimacing at the dust spattered across the shoulders of his black uniform jacket. “Would...would anyone who didn’t do this even try to take credit for it?” he asked, more confused than anything. “It was clearly you.”

“Who knows? It’s a classic prank!” he continued, placing his feet on the floor and leaning forward over the desk, steepling his fingers nefariously. “Everyone knows it, no special skills required, buuut - okay, I totally did it. What do you think? Annoyed? Upset? Enough to become my fated rival for all time!?” he exclaimed, hands curling into fists beneath his chin.

“Um...I think it’s going to be hard to clean up,” murmured Saihara, entering the classroom with his shoulders slumped and tucking the hat into his bag. At least there would be time to clean up, he reflected bitterly.

“Ah, I see. In that case, let me help you out.” He hopped up and approached, reaching out with small white hands toward the recoiling Saihara. The unruly tendrils of his hair bounced with each step. “Pat around it, paaat pat pat, don’t smear it!”

Before Saihara realized what was happening, he had been herded to the back of the classroom, ushered into the next chair over from the one where the boy had been sitting. Small hands patted at his chalky shoulders with an utter lack of shame. He stared at the electronic board at the front, vacillating between bewilderment and timidity. “I’m Oma Kokichi,” the boy volunteered.

“A-ah. Um…Saihara Shuichi,” he answered, and craned his neck to look at his shoulders. From the limited amount he could see, he was surprised to note that the dust was gone without a trace. “Oma-kun. Thank you…?”

“You’re welcome!” Oma said, and returned to the next chair. “Ah, hey! It looks like we’re sitting next to each other, Saihara-chan.”

“S-Saihara-cha-”

“So what are you into?” he asked, busily rummaging through his own bag. “Hobbies, interests, anything? I’m totally psyched about _Dragon Quest 63_ right now.”

“Ah...” Saihara took a deep breath, thoroughly rattled. Nothing in his history of interaction with anyone at any time had prepared him for the situation, much less the way that Oma fixed him with a glittering stare and wielded a violently purple handheld console as though he had intentions. There was so much time to kill. “Actually…” He took a deep breath, opening his school bag and reaching inside. He could do this. “Me too,” he said, producing his own plain, gray console.

Oma lit up.

* * *

Saihara arrived early to school every day, and every day he found Oma gaming in the chair beside the window. He wondered where Oma lived - if his trains were poorly timed as well, or if he just arrived early for the play sessions they had begun to hold each morning. It wasn’t that Saihara never asked. Rather, it was that Oma gave a different explanation every day no matter how many times Saihara asked him.

“Well, my bike was stolen by the yakuza, but of course that’s a lie. Really, I live in Hokkaido and a helicopter drops me off every day on the roof. I hate being at home, my home life is a tragic situation...just kidding. In fact, Saihara-chan, it’s a boring, stupid reason, just like yours! I have to take two trains.”

“From where?”

“The galaxy Andromeda!” he exclaimed. “C’mon, that’s enough boring stuff, I wanted to beat this dragon today.”

Saihara wondered if Oma really lived far away, and if so, if he might have time to kill after school.

“I’m actually very busy in the afternoons! That’s not a lie at all, I’m kind of a big deal,” Oma told him when he asked. “Heal me, hurry up.”

“Okay.”

“I might be able to carve a little time out for you one of these days, though. But mostly I’m busy with club activities, you know?”

“That’s definitely a lie.” As far as Saihara saw, Oma rarely interacted with anyone on an ordinary level - he hid people’s shoes in the wrong lockers, switched around umbrellas, wrote fake love notes with other people’s names. He replaced the candy in the student store with meat-flavored caramels and blew deafeningly loud bubbles with gum in the hallways behind anyone who looked lost in thought. If there were a club for running away from people bent on vengeance, Oma would be its president.

If there were a club for Saihara, it would be the invisibility club, and not even he would know it existed. The result was the same - they were alone. He was sure of it.

“No no,” Oma protested, “it’s the truth! It’s a secret club for spreading chaos and discord throughout society, and I’m the supreme evil leader. Did you think I was doing it all on my own?”

“Yes. I absolutely do.”

“Oh? Well, you could at least help me out part-time then.”

Saihara smiled gently. “No, I’m good. After...after school sometime, though, would you go to the bookstore with me?"

"Ah?" Oma struck the killing blow on the boss, looked up from his console with a smile. "Sure."

* * *

Despite spending time after school with Oma during the spring, as the summer break approached, Saihara found himself apprehensive about inviting Oma where he really wanted to go. It was one thing to go together to a cafe for tea, to stop by a bookstore to look at manga together. Oma liked sweetened teas, Saihara learned, disliked the taste of ginger, and voraciously read lighthearted shonen and comedy manga. It was easy to go along with these things. It was another thing entirely to go out in the evening, to attend a social event - not Saihara's strength even at the best of times. As the other students filed in over time and they finished playing for the day, Saihara gathered his courage and turned to face Oma’s desk. “You like games, right?”

“No!” Oma declared, opening his notebook and writing the date in small, rounded numbers.

“Ah...yeah, that was a stupid question. But do you follow _Danganronpa_? The new season is going to start soon, you know.”

“Everyone likes that,” Oma said dismissively. “It’s the most-watched, most-played franchise in the entire nation, and as you know, I have very particular tastes. Soooo…” He grinned. “ _Yes_ , obviously.”

“Oh! Good. Um, there’s a weekly viewing party at this izakaya near my place,” said Saihara. “It starts near the end of break. I wanted to go, t-to watch it with everyone, but...it’s weird to go alone, isn’t it? It’s all couples and groups.”

Oma stared at him, lips quirking at the corners as though Saihara had made a joke. “Cool! After all these months of one-sided pining, Saihara-chan’s finally asking me out!” Some of the people at the front of the class glanced back; Saihara flushed pink and stared at the floor. No one would take Oma seriously, no one ever did even if they couldn’t avoid ignoring him altogether, but the sight of his sparkling enthusiasm was embarrassing in a way hard to define. “Okay. But we’ve got to keep it secret, ‘cause I can’t risk everyone else who has a thing for me committing mass suicide!”

“I - what?” he stammered. “No, I mean it’s not like f-friends can’t go together to it, and I think...I think we can take turns paying for the food, so-”

“Just kidding,” Oma finally said, taking mercy. “I accept. The new episodes are going to air on Fridays, right?”

“I’ll send you the address.”

* * *

Saihara shyly entered the izakaya, trying to keep his gaze steady as he looked around the small, packed room. Every week attending the viewing party began with the same anxious scan of the rustic wooden bar and grill until his eyes caught Oma’s pale hand waving at him. Oma, already sitting at the crowded bar with feet rudely propped on the next chair, smiled and moved his legs aside. “Hey,” he said casually. “Since it’s your turn to pay this time, I ordered the fried chicken for our first course.”

“Oh…” Saihara sighed, lowering his head as he sat in the offered chair.

“That’s what you get for being late again...just kidding.” Oma snapped apart an edamame pod, pointing to the bowl on the bar between them. “Nishishi, it’s a lie. With this right here, that was an easy one to pick out, too. Saihara-chan really is a shitty detective. You wanted to be a detective, right?”

“For that matter, is it even my turn to pay?”

“Nnnnope,” Oma answered, somehow managing to chew loudly on one soybean. They turned their attention to the television above the bar, displaying a recap of the previous several killings; a girl fell to the floor, eyes bulging, blood pouring from her mouth and leaking in rivulets from the dead, blanched whiteness of her conjunctiva. Poisoning, Saihara remembered. Massive internal bleeding. He was certain that poison of some sort would be his ideal method, too. “Hey, Saihara-chan! You think if I pretended to be legal, they’d serve me liquor? I think I could pass as older for sure.”

“Um…” Saihara stared at Oma’s petite frame, the way he turned his head and looked at him with wide, sparkling eyes. “Uh, well...oh! It’s starting.”

“Polls are closed,” announced a bartender as the theme music began. “This week’s favored for the blackened is the Ultimate Gardener. Favored for the victim is the Ultimate Hand Therapist.”

“I doubt that,” Saihara told Oma, chewing a few soybeans as his fingers toyed nervously with a pod. “That hand therapist is going to be in the final few. I’ve been sure of it since week two.”

“I doubt that.” Oma smiled mysteriously as the lights dimmed.

* * *

“It’s punishment tiiiime,” everyone in the izakaya sang in unison as Monokuma hammered the red button again. A cheer went up as everyone toasted the conclusion of the latest class trial. Saihara murmured the familiar phrase along with them, smiling faintly as a pixel-art Monokuma dragged away the blackened on the screen.

The Ultimate Gardener was long since gone at that point, swept untimely away by the lethal combination of the Ultimate Plumber and the Ultimate Circus Ringmaster. The end of the season had already almost come. Oma, perched on the chair beside him, stole the last piece of fried chicken.

“This is seriously the worst!” the Ultimate Calligrapher declared, slamming his fist on the podium. “Even though we all said we’d be able to communicate, and we all said we were comfortable sharing our motives with one another, she still...she still…!” An endless amount of blood spread from beneath hundreds of thick, blunt needles, the body beneath them mangled into tattered lace. From the corpse’s long, blonde hair, a perfectly knitted scarf had been fashioned.

“That was some execution,” Saihara remarked. "One of the better ones this season." He had considered his own execution before, which would of course be much better.

“Mmm,” Oma hummed vaguely, chewing.

“But even though this happened,” offered the Ultimate Hand Therapist, “and...and it’s truly...it’s horrible, Nakayama-kun, please don’t hit the podium with your fist.” She grabbed his hand; the camera zoomed in on their stricken faces. “You can’t blame yourself! We can’t blame ourselves.”

“I’m totally shipping it!” declared the girl on Oma’s other side. “The hand therapist with this fiery protagonist-kun, who keeps punching stuff with his big stupid hands!”

“It’s perfect,” agreed the girl next to her. “It’s like they were made for one another. Well, I mean...” She laughed, then took a long drink.

“Even in a place like this, we have to take care of each other, don’t we?” pleaded the Ultimate Hand Therapist, tears welling in her eyes. “That’s what I honestly believe. Nakayama-kun, you have to keep us together! We can’t lose hope, not here, not like this.”

“Shihori-san,” he sobbed, clutching at her hand. “Shihori…”

The audience cheered; the girl to Oma’s side wiped at her eyes with a napkin. Saihara stared pensively at the screen. Oma, standing to his full height in order to lean far enough over the counter, ordered dry soba.

“I thought her plan was pretty solid,” said Saihara after the commotion died down. He paused to blow on the noodles clasped between his chopsticks. “Honestly, everyone always expects the next killing to happen in the area that’s recently unveiled, right? So killing him in the greenhouse and then transporting his body into the gymnasium was a solid idea, especially since she hit him with the kettlebell postmortem.”

“It wasn’t that good. They always overlook some little flower stuck to the body or something, and there’s no reason that would be in the gym, right?” Oma poked listlessly at a carrot nestled in the soba, then set his chopsticks aside. “Outdoors makes more sense.”

“But no one would expect the Ultimate Knitter to be able to transport the body that far without tarps or wheeled dollies or anything like that, not with how frail she pretended to be from the start. If it wasn’t for the Monokuma File, no one would have noticed the double skull fracture. So no one would know that she’d struck him with the flowerpot first. There’s no guarantee they’d have found the terracotta shards if not for that one flower, you know?”

“Hey, Saihara-chan.” For the first time, Saihara noticed that Oma had barely touched the noodles. The soft swell of conversation rose around his small frame like a wave; for a moment he looked alone in the midst of the enthusiastic chatter, sweating above the hot soba underneath the glow of the lamps.

“Yeah?” Saihara asked, genuinely concerned. “What is it, Oma-kun?”

“Let’s play video games next weekend instead of coming to the viewing party. At your place.” All at once Oma smiled, picking up his chopsticks and stuffing a chunk of cabbage into his mouth. “It’s not the finale yet, so...and it’s a warm fall, so it's way too hot to eat this stuff lately!” he said with his mouth full. “Makes it hard to want to talk about this,” he continued, taking another bite.

“Oh. Sure, that’s fine.” Saihara took another bite of noodles, slurping quietly, and let out a satisfied sigh. “But seriously, what else is there to talk about?”

Oma laughed around a mouthful of food. “That’s a fair point.”

They emerged from beneath the curtain into the emptying streets, well-lit and peaceful against the darkness, replete with the aroma of wood smoke and leaves. A breeze stirred the feathery tendrils of Oma’s hair from where they lay plastered to his forehead with perspiration. “You know, everyone has a plan they think would be perfect, but…” Saihara shrugged. Couples and groups filtered out of the izakaya behind them, scattering in chatty, laughing groups along the boulevard. “I don’t think it’s possible to commit a perfect crime. I have a lot of ideas myself, you’ve seen my writing and my theories, but I’m not sure. Even the Monokuma File can get you in the end.”

“It’s hardly possible to commit a crime at all,” Oma murmured. “Pranks, sure, or petty things. That’s possible. Just stuff to make people laugh.” He played idly with a strand of his hair as he walked toward the train station, twisting and letting it go. “Do you think that kind of thing is boring, Saihara-chan?” His tone made it sound like a heavy question, as though some deeper question beneath was dragging it down.

“But...you like that kind of thing, Oma-kun. You don’t think it’s boring at all.” Saihara fiddled with his own hands, looking down the quiet street to avoid eye contact. “You seem kind of upset about something.”

“Ooooh, is Saihara-chan worried about me?” He grinned, tucking his hands behind his head. “That’s sooo touching, but I’m just fine! Well, maybe I’m a little scared by that super bloody execution. Maybe I want you to hold my hand?”

“I know that one’s a lie,” he said, smiling softly. “I just mean that if this season isn’t your favorite, that’s okay. I know you get bored easily. There’s been a lot of backlash against this showrunner online, too, so the next one might be more your thing. I don’t get the feeling that he’s going to last another season.” He paused for thought. “Um...what game did you want to play next week? I’ll record the show, so we can watch it afterward too.”

“Hmm. I’m thinking the fourteenth remaster of _Dragon’s Crown_ , for sure.”

* * *

“I can’t believe how boring your room is,” Oma said for the twentieth time. “It’s like some showroom model of a room where no one actually lives.” Accurate as Oma was - Saihara had a twin bed, a study desk with a laptop, a small bookcase, a television on a small stand, and nothing else - Saihara ignored him. “I can see under your bed from here and there’s _nothing_ under there. Where do you keep the-”

“I can’t believe the Ultimate Hand Therapist actually killed him,” he interrupted, sprawled back on his small bed and staring at the ceiling fan. Oma, lying on the floor beside the bed, clicked rhythmically away at his console. “I really thought she’d go all the way.”

“That’s what she wanted you to think,” Oma suggested. “Anyone who makes such a big show of being trustworthy...don’t you just think they’re lying even more? Even more than someone like me, who’s an obvious liar.”

“But if you even think people who seem really trustworthy are liars, who’s trustworthy?” Saihara asked blankly.

“ _No one_ , obviously.” Oma snorted. “And besides, it always happens like that to people who seem like they have good chemistry. One of them dies suuuper dramatically to prove a point.”

“Do you think it’s that predictable? I don’t think so.” Saihara paused. “I think...it’s less predictable than the real world is. I think…”

Oma paused the game, then set the console down on the carpet beside himself. “What?”

“I think it’s real. I mean, I know it’s real...I know they’re really dying, everyone knows that. But I mean that their experiences seem...more real than mine. If that makes sense.”

“Hmm.”

“Oma-kun, do you ever think the world feels...fake? Like the entire world is artificial.” He stared up at the ceiling, not wanting to see Oma’s reaction. “It’s boring. The future is boring, too.”

“Mmm?” he asked, strangely noncommittal.

“I’m sorry. It sounds weird to say that our society is safe like that’s a bad thing. Or that I don’t have much to worry about, like that’s something to be sad about, or that...so much of my time is just burned on entertainment, you know? I think my life, my experiences, they...they aren’t real. There’s nothing there. I’m just...” He sighed. “I’m not saying this right. I hate what I’m saying right now.”

“It does sound pretty stupid, Saihara-chan.” A moment of silence passed. Saihara watched the ceiling fan rotate until the blades appeared to whir in reverse. “Only joking! I looove your personal philosophy about how our lives are so great they actually suck!”

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “It’s not just me, though, I’m not special or anything. People say that kind of thing online all the time. Do you...not think like that?” He rolled over, staring over the edge of his bed at Oma’s small, pale face, framed by dark hair against the white carpet. “How do you feel? Be honest.”

“You’re asking _me_ to be honest.”

“I know, I know.” He smiled gently. “Stupid question.”

“Yeah,” Oma agreed. “Idiot. Moron.” Saihara rolled back over, fixing his gaze on the fan and willing it to rotate backward again. “Hey, Saihara-chan…”

“Yeah?” The fan reversed, faster and faster. He imagined it detaching from the ceiling, plummeting and whirling down on him from above. A decent murder weapon, he thought.

“I think that _Danganronpa_ is a game that no one ever wins.”

He blinked; the fan returned to normal. “Oh.”

“In the end they say...they’re going to end this game. They’ve won, so they choose someone to carry their hope into the future. And then we get another season.”

“Because they won, right?” Unseen, Oma waved a dismissive hand in the air.

“That person represents something to everyone, you know? Hope, compassion, violence, whatever. Without them...maybe people wouldn’t feel those things. Or maybe people wouldn’t know what despair is. Like Saihara-chan doesn’t.” Oma sat up, peering over the edge of the bed.

“Yeah?”

“It's not just that one person, though, it's the whole franchise. It means something to people.”

“I...I guess so.” Saihara turned his head to meet Oma’s eyes, uncomfortable. His expression was perfectly neutral in a way Saihara had never seen before, his mouth for once level and unsmiling. “I mean, all those people _auditioned_ -”

“So _we_ can live like this,” he said, his mouth curving into a wide, strange smile, the corners of his lips drawing back in a mirthless crescent. “The only one who could ever _win_ the game is someone who can figure that out.” Abruptly, so fast that Saihara wondered if he had been imagining things, it transformed into a normal grin. “Hey, did I scare you just now, Saihara-chan? Sowwy,” he singsonged, fingers curling over the edge of the bed. “Juuust kidding. Since I’ve missed all the trains by now, want me to kiss you all better?”

“Ah. _Now_ you’re kidding,” Saihara said, relieved by his lightening of the atmosphere.

“I’m not.” Oma’s smile widened. “I’m seriously gonna do it if you don’t tell me not to. I’ll count back from five, and then I’m just gonna go for it!”

“Oma-kun…”

“Five,” he began, and raised himself to kneel beside the bed. “Four…” He leaned forward, eyes trained on Saihara’s as his gaze flickered frantically from Oma’s eyes to his lips. “Three…” Saihara, still staring, licked his own lips in a thoughtless motion. “Two!” he shouted, leaning forward.

“O-Oma-kun...”

“One,” he breathed. He hovered millimeters away, the breath from his nose tickling softly against Saihara’s mouth. Saihara caught his breath, closed his eyes, _waited_ -

“Just kidding,” Oma whispered.

“Ah…” he sighed, heart pounding, and lay motionless on the bed. His eyes fluttered open and he twitched as he realized Oma was still there.

“Hey, Saihara-chan,” he said softly. “Is this one of your fake life experiences?” His breath fanned out over Saihara’s face, warm and grape bubblegum-scented.

“You didn’t really do anything,” Saihara protested helplessly. “So isn’t it?”

“Really?” He closed the distance, pressed his lips to Saihara’s in a brief, chaste peck. “How about now?”

“I...I don’t know,” he whispered, shaking as though he might come apart. “I’ve never…”

Oma approached to do it again, softer and lingering, lips slightly parted. “Now?” he asked as he pulled back the barest distance, mouth brushing lightly against Saihara’s as he spoke.

“Please don’t stop,” he said instead of answering, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.

* * *

Saihara’s breath clouded in the cold air as he walked down the street, buttoning his peacoat and tugging his scarf up around his mouth to keep the chill from his lungs. Oma skipped along beside him on light feet, straightening his gloves and fluffing up what looked like an artificial fox-fur stole around his neck. Saihara looked askance at it and said nothing.

“I see you noticing this,” Oma remarked, “but I’m sorry, you can’t have it.”

“That’s okay,” he answered, smiling. It was a busy Sunday, bicycles and pedestrians flowing around them as they traveled slowly along the sidewalk. He was in the mood for ramen, soy sauce broth, an extra egg on top that Oma would steal as soon as he looked away.

“That’s a lie, you know. I’d graciously let Saihara-chan borrow it.”

“I’ll never do that,” he firmly said. Oma’s gloved hand slipped into his, fingers twining together. He flinched and allowed it. “Let’s go to the bookstore later. The new photobook came out today, so I want to get it before it sells out. I want to see the details of last season’s class uniforms.”

“Mm, okay. I _was_ kind of interested in the Ultimate Knitter’s costume. They never showed it in much detail, you know? And then I want to go to a game store.”

“Okay. The new showrunner has a different costuming sense, I think.” Saihara gestured vaguely with his free hand. “More...I don’t know, I guess more like actual costumes? She’s actually well known for that kind of thing, she got famous in the first place by doing cosplay from previous seasons, so everyone thinks the next season will have a whole new aesthetic. I’m really looking forward to it.” Oma hummed attentively, swinging their joined hands gently back and forth.

“Well, looks like we’re here.” He turned abruptly into the _konbini_ convenience store, separating from Saihara to pull a small package from his bag. Saihara reached into his coat and took out a matching package, stamped and labeled, and approached the convenience store’s courier station.

“More people are applying this year than usual, huh?” asked the woman at the desk, accepting their pay forms and checking over the packages. Saihara mumbled a non-response, an agreement and some vague pleasantry, and picked out a rice ball from a nearby display. He turned it over and over in his left hand as he mechanically paid for the mail service, watching Oma approach afterward to do the same.

“Yeah,” Oma told her brightly. “I really love _Danganronpa._ ” Saihara smiled and picked up an extra rice ball to pay for at the other counter.

“Good luck!” he heard her say. Oma accepted the second rice ball, beaming, and exited the store hand-in-hand with him.

“Let’s go get ramen,” murmured Saihara, staring up into the gray winter sky. Beside him, purposely blowing steam from his mouth into the cold, Oma enthusiastically nodded.


End file.
